Excuse me, I can't hear you--
your gun is speaking louder  
than you do and yes,
you scare me, it isn't how
it ought to be--we are more
like each other than you can see.

I can't hear you
I can't hear you
your gun is speaking
louder than you do
and yes, it saddens me
because all I see--is a woman who
doesn't know who she could be.

I can't hear you
I can't hear you
your gun is speaking louder
speaking louder

There's no more you.

Written by Evelyn Augusto for Guns Don't Save People Poets Do.  October 21, 2017

i was underwater.
swimming with the fishes
with the stories
of names i’ll never
quite be able to place
and then you dove in with me
just as i was wading to the edge.
you swam around the room
a rainbow trout
amidst schools of minnows
i love them all
but you’re just such a pretty color.

i let my feet dangle in the water
as you kept diving deeper
you’d look at me
from across the sea
send a wave toward my shore
i feel it crashing into me even now.

standing beside me
both of us swimming in
different depths
you looked right into my eyes.
i knew if i just held you there
for a little longer.
just a little.
i felt like the moon
dragging you toward me

i swear to god you almost kissed me.
i swear to god i would have let you.

Crushed flowers are beautiful,
dried, pressed
not useful but certainly nice to look at
My sister affectionately called me a 'delicate little flower' one of the many times you made me break down, crushed from false accusation
until i eventually dried up
pressed myself until the pain no longer hurt.
I wondered why i had become such a fragile thing
shouldn't heartbreak build you up, a learning experience rather than reducing you to a few petals and a stem.
i feel more like a tree
green and great during the warm summer months
unaware of the freezing winter winds that will blow away all my protective leaves. barren. cold.
i hope someday i will become evergreen
beautiful, tall, luscious and full- pine or cedar or spruce
staying fragrant all year round

but for now i remain a daisy
nothing special
dried, pressed and crushed between these pages, within these words.

it isn't until you let go
that you notice the blood
dropping from your palms
it isn't until you look down
that you notice how close
you are to the bottom
it isn't until I distanced myself
that I realized you were
slowly killing me

I write because it keeps me sane
Takes away my sorrow, anger and pain

When my mind switches off or gets stuck on repeat
Words make no sense and i feel incomplete

My lines have no flow and the frustration sets in
Pen poised above paper
Giving up before I can even begin

On with the headphones, Psyclon Nine takes my life
Haunting my head so my hand can write
The rhythm of rhyme pushes my senses to flight

While the energy  incited by the beat of the drum
Has me no longer frustrated and no longer numb

Music is my muse and with it I play
I'm the hunter, the words are my prey.